


church of the unimpressed majority

by feltstrips



Category: Homestuck, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, M/M, Road Trips, okay im not tagging anything else this is a dirkdave spn au what do you want from me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 14:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18121919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feltstrips/pseuds/feltstrips
Summary: Dave's right there next to you, half-dozing, highway hypnosis glazed over his eyes.





	church of the unimpressed majority

**Author's Note:**

> my super wonderful horribly indulgent friends manhandled me into writing this like twenty years ago and i literally just forgot to post it. if anyone traces this back to me irl im going to pull myself apart like a bloomin' onion

Three years, ten months, two weeks, and four days. It's been that long, and sometimes, you like to sit and count out the seconds, arrange them around in your head like spare change. It's been three-ish years since your beating heart was ripped out. You know this. It is not a comfort.

As of five seconds ago, you know breaking into your estranged brother's college dorm ends with his knees to your chest and a blade to the throat. This, somehow, is a comfort. 

Dave stares down at you, looking like he woke up moments ago. Same irritating brand of pretty; three-odd years couldn't touch him. 

“Dirk?” He asks then, breathlessly. Is that a gun in your pocket, or?

“No shit,” you say, and hook a forearm around his calves so you can flip him over proper. He goes around like a bag of feathers. A bony bag of feathers holding a sharp, unnecessarily huge weapon. 

Then you’re on top, he’s stunned, and you'd kill for a script.

Mysterious clattering echoes from the bowels of the dorm. Dave swears, pushes you off him, and throws the- jeezus, the full-length sword- behind the couch. 

You barely have time to pull yourself upright before Dave’s tugging you into the most sweaty half-hug ever. It’s shocking, and he stinks like unwashed hair and old spice. Morning breath. You can't remember the last time he hugged you. 

On cue, a short college kid stumbles into the doorway. You immediately recognize his sweatshirt as an old one of Dave’s, stretched and faded.

“Wh-” Dave cuts you off by man-patting you on the back. Fwap, fwap, skin on leather. Context is key. 

“Morning, sunshine!” He says, just a tad too loud, “You remember me telling you about my brother, right?” 

God as your witness, Dave's grin is tacked at the edges. That explains the hug, the play (nice) acting. You could really go for a cigarette.

“Wait. The fucking- Bro one?” Sweatshirt Kid bristles, takes a step. Your guard raises automatically, hands balling into loose fists. Come closer & give me a reason.

Dave glances at him. Warning shot. His nose scrunches up, but he doesn't come any closer, eyes shooting from your hand on Dave's shoulder to your patented “indoor nighttime shades”.

“Dave?” He asks, creaky with suspicion and sleep.

Your brother ignores him, instead looking to you. The small triumph trills in your chest like a canary in a coal mine. 

“Don't tell Bro.”

“Dude. Bro’s the biggest faggot this side of the Mississippi, why-” Then you see Sweatshirt Kid’s expression; comical anger, stretched towards possessiveness and fear. What exactly does he know?

Before he can say something and live to regret it, Dave puts a hand on his chest. Ever the knight in shining armor. 

“The fuck is going on, babe?” Babe. Your fingertips twitch.

Dave moves to him then, one arm casually around this little peach-fuzzed’ motherfucker, and decides it’s a good time to play defense.

“Listen. Dunno what the hell he's doing here,” ‘He’ being you, presumably. You wait for him to finish, but he seems to be in the same conversation rut you are; you can only dig yourself so far into awkward.

“...but, uh, babe. This is Dirk.”

College Boyfriend clears his throat and shoves his hand into your personal bubble with the attitude of passing a grenade.

“Karkat,” He says. Okay, cool. Your brother's dating a dude named Car Cat who, so far, seems to always look constipated. 

You reply with a lip twitch somewhere in the territory of a smile and ignore his outthrust handful of explosives, say “I love your sweatshirt.” Limpwristed much?

Dave doesn't even have the balls to acknowledge the jab, lame as it was. 

“Yeah, Dirk, that's great, but I think you were just-”

“Leaving? Not without you.” You interrupt, feeding the private cloud of aloofness orbiting your head. Call off the virgin sacrifice, y'all.

Cat Car looked pissy before, but now he looks right fit to erupt. Dave wisely places a hand over his mouth- his own indignity eclipsed in favor of damage control- and nods you to the fire escape.

\----

By the time Dave placates Car Cat and joins you, you’re on your second smoke. 

“Don't know what you see in the angry ones, bro.” 

He shrugs, sliding the glass shut behind him. Remember, you came in the back door and left out the window. What a Freudian slip.

“Dunno what you see in breaking in my dorm, scaring my boyfriend, and trying to steal me away, so. Here we are.” Put it like that and you sound like the Goblin King, an association of which you will never be worthy.

“Here we are,” you agree. Full circle. You ask him to stay, but he leaves. You come crawling back to him. You ask him to leave and well, this is more of a full semicircle. 

In an ideal world, you'd have the guts to wonder-out-loud when talking became a chore. Just ambiguous enough, you see, but still wafting the blame to his territory. He'd turn to you and say when I left you in the dust, but it would sound like an apology. The most beautiful and heartbreaking in the world. Then you'd take your sunglasses off, he'd see how beautiful you really were, you'd do big kisses and no one would try to jump off the balcony. Yeah, right.

Your fingers twitch, even with the lit cigarette cradled against your face. Already thinking of lighting a fresh one, a sensation that dwelling on your more degenerate wishes tends to produce. 

Finally, you inhale deep and confess. Acknowledge your sins, return the prodigal son to your lips. 

“Bro’s been gone for a couple days.” 

Dave scoffs quietly to himself, picking apart a gum wrapper he'd carried outside and flicking the bits over the railing.

“Better call the fucken’ coast guard,” He says, tearing the wrapper with vengeance, “ ‘Bro’ Strider disappears and has definitely not left his kid for a bar two towns over. Stop the presses, get your cameras, extra extra, once-in-a-lifetime event.”

He's begun to lose the edge of his Texan accent, and his tirade is peppered with west-coast lilt. A rose by any other voice, you think. Sadly.

You take a long drag, let him take time to cool out. Continue. Smoke blows over his silhouette with every word as if it carries the message. 

“Bro's on a hunting trip. He hasn't been home for a couple days.” 

For once in his life, Dave is quiet. Motionless.

“Also, dude. His kid? I'm twenty-four.” You add, self-defense in full swing. 

His system reboots and he moves, an automaton made only to laugh at you. “Always the baby,” he says. You're six years older.

\----

“Last I heard, he was checkin’ out something in Wisconsin.” You say, popping open the back window to your truck and shoving in Dave's bag. It drops right between two sawed-offs, shitty canvas way too art-student for a bed of guns and gatorade bottles. Kid's degree is archeology or something. He still dresses like he's getting a major in basket weaving and a minor in sucking dick. 

He doesn't get his ass off the curb to help. “You’re carting me across the country for a cheese monster?”

“Yeah. Cheese monster, Wisconsin, hah,” you say flatly, “aka the numero uno werewolf hotspot in the country.” He slaps at your legs when you pass. 

“Man, shut up. I know.” He finally gets up and hauls your bag into the back. Equilibrium.

“So,” you begin, only to get nailed with Dave’s best bitchface. You almost want to take a picture so it'll last longer. 

“Nope. No hunt talk. Just get down there, find him, and then I'm gone.” He slams the hatch shut, barely missing your fingers.

“We're- I'm not doing this again.” Finale.

You nod, slide into the front seat. Dave drools his lanky body into shotgun, feet up on the dash, metaphorical mascara running from his eyes. The air's unbearably thick and unconditioned. Drama queen humidity.

“So, D,” You say as you pull out, all smooth-like, “you eyeball the plates yet?”

He barely glances at you, refocuses on the road ahead. “Nah. Why?”

You don't respond, give it a second. Three, two, one, cue card. He gasps.

“No way.” 

You shrug, barely stop yourself from laughing your way into a ditch at the look on his face. He makes a noise at a decibel only dogs can hear, any trace of Stanford damp evaporating under the force of his enthusiasm.

“We have been wanting to do that since- and you didn't show me yet- fuck!” 

The radio is flicked on, Dave trying to drown himself out, and Country Roads practically blows your speakers out. Least it isn't the dubstep remix. He goes on, hands flinging and silently begging you to ignore him the louder he goes. 

Take me home, West Virginia, mountain mama, blah blah blah. You're already there. 

\---

Turns out, you do stop the car- rather, the car stops you, hours closer, hours farther. It’s a long-ass drive.

Dave’s snoozing with his head bent into the seatbelt when you pull over and smack on the steering wheel. He jerks awake, wince-blinking at the sunlight streaming through the windshield. 

“Wassup?” He mutters, absentmindedly wrestling his shoes on. You notice a tiny sliver of dried-drool-crust rimming his lower lip, think fondly of how he’d spaz if you licked your thumb and rubbed at it.

“Low on gas. Think we're just gonna stop,” you say, “Find a cheap bed somewhere, y'know.” 

He grins and shows all his teeth. “Gotta be a first.” You sigh, open-mouthed, push your hair back and wish for a cigarette again. 

“It's a fucking three-day drive.” The dark circles under your eyes itch at the thought.

“Shit, really?” 

“Alternately, a 28-day walk, 3.5-day bike ride,” say, droning.

“Uh huh,” Dave muttersand spent a few more seconds trying to shove his foot into his sneaker without untying it. Three, two, one,

“Fuck!” He yells, scrambling out just as you fling the door open, making a beeline to see the plates in the front. You get there first, wedge yourself between the car and him. He groans.

“Jesus Christ on a stick, Dirk. Lemme see!” 

“No!” You laugh, grinning sharp, spread-eagle across the hood. Dave kicks dust up when he ran for the back, you skidding on his heels.

“Dude, save it for Wisconsin!” 

“I ain't saving shit,” he yells, and promptly falls to the ground in a heap when you stick a foot under his ankle, those popsicle-stick elbows arguing with the gravel. You get back into place, guarding. 

“You’re such a weirdo.” He says, giving up and lying in the rock dust.

You flick a wad of roadside scragglegrass on his shirt. Sit down next to him. “Says the kid who was wrestling me to see a pair of damn license plates.”

“That was not wrestling, Dirk,” and there was something nostalgic about the little close-face-head tilt he gave you when he sat up, “that was a scrap at best.” Cat Car feels a hundred miles away and wow, you guess he is. Fortunate. 

“Plus,” Dave paused, gave you a look, "You know Bro would kill you for changing the plates to 'MNSTRUK’.” He actually attempts to phonetically pronounce MNSTRUK. Old vices are moving up the food chain.

“ 'S my truck now, and I refuse to drive around with ‘#1 Bro’ plates,” you say. He grunts and you got to see the little satisfied smile on his face. Worth every penny.

“Canon,” he says, bizarrely.

“Biblically?”

“You wish.”

\---

The latest gas station is shrinking into the distance behind you and Dave is right there next to you, half-dozing, highway hypnosis glazed over his eyes. Nothing had been asked. Surprisingly.

You weren't trying to bait him, necessarily, but he didn't seem to think twice when you implied Bro had given you the truck. The damn thing was one of his babies, and god knows Bro didn't part with his babies easily. Dave learned that the hard way four years ago. You all learned that the hard way. 

Also, he hadn't asked where the hell y'all were, either. So if you wanted to kidnap him you'd pretty much be set.

But no hunt talk means no Hunt Talk, and kidnapping jokes may apply to that. Maybe? It involves travel, so, fuck. You're driving-tired. The promise of a motel, hotel, hostel, whatever is calling to you like a swan song.

You spare a glance to the minty-tinted dashboard clock. 10:26 AM. California was around 3:30 AM, so by your pristine calculations, there’s an exhausting amount of time between the two. 

You drive a little more, turn up the radio. Pull into a gas station and ask around for what state you're in, where's the nearest hotel. You left your leather jacket and cigarettes in the car so you could pull off Two Frat Boys On A Road Trip sheepish. 

The town's called Farmington. Farmington, Nebraska, Which, even for your standards, is an incredibly stupid name. Dave makes a bet with you- the only lodging will be named paradise breeze motel, in so many words. You follow the directions the clerk gave you, squint ahead to the piss-yellow-and-green neon sign and, yeah, okay, when he's right. What a little shit.

Dave is ten dollars richer when you check into Eden Springs Hotel. 

You flop down onto the bed closest to the door, enjoying the protest of the box springs. Nice and homey. Dave doesn't even seem all that peeved to be back in a roach hotel; he loved to complain about it, back in the day, back before he grew a pair. He clambers into his bed, bag hitting the floor dully at his feet.

“Man, this place seems familiar,” He says, buried under scratchy comforters, “has such a good aura about it.”

You flick the wheel of the lighter in your pocket, flirt with setting your pants on fire. “Spare me your sarcasm. That aura came at a delightfully low price.” 

He hums noncommittally. You force yourself to get up and undress, numb butterfingers fumbling around your laces. Someday you'd find the Velcro hiking boots of your dreams. Dave does the same across from you, follow the leader, what a good idea.

Obviously, The room feels a lot colder once you're down to only one layer of clothes. You move to get up again and fiddle with the radiator, joints popping past your years, and Dave folds open the corner of his blankets and nods over.

“D, we're not twelve anymore.” You say. He knows you're not talking about being too old, you mean when you were sixteen and the time you got drunk and the time you had to sleep in the car and when you just had to it was new years and and and- 

Dave rolls his eyes. Oblivious, or anything but. “It's easier than fighting that losing battle.” The air conditioner wheezes agreement. 

You fold your elbows up over your shoulders, cracking the kinks out of your bones with everything you've got, and shake your head. Silent. That heart of yours is chiseling a mantra into your chest. No trust here, with him, for your own mind. He starts to say something, stops, says something else that sounds an awful lot like please but that can't be right. 

“I just- once. Just come here.” 

There's nothing in the sound of your laugh.

“Seriously? Bro's MIA, and,” you say, craned back, staring at the popcorn ceiling, “And the minute you can you're pulling this.” 

Carpet squeaks under your bare feet when you stand up again, stop no closer to him. Dave just looks angry. And sad, and young.

“I thought you said we ain't doing this again. What about- Cat Car, or whatever,” you say, quiet. 

“Jesus, I'm not trying to fuck you!” He says, a rush, sudden, loud for the small space and you feel it get smaller. You shut up. He does too, and before you know it you end up on the bed. 

You pull your body in on itself, legs tangled in the covers. The argument is just pillow talk, now. Nose-to-nose, can see the salted ground behind his eyes. You sniff. It's a normal, casual sniff. Definitely. 

“Sorry,” he says, soft against your face, almost, and there's no balcony to make an escape over. 

You say “Yeah,” and turn on your other side. The air conditioner spits something out onto the floor, an old man with chewing tobacco. You want a cigarette.

 

\---

The next morning, you wake up warmer than you went to sleep. Dave is wrapped around you in so many ways. Hangover-disheveled, boxers twisted on half-backward and his sticky lips pressed into your neck. Branding you. 

You don't know if Bro is worth all this.

**Author's Note:**

> i was too lazy to write it but bro is so totally dead they find the remaining hunks of him in a barn and then fuck in the car


End file.
